Wednesday, January 4, 2017

Affective Needs--Chapter Three

One
week and a day after I watched the new guy get restrained and hauled out of the
school by the police, he walked into the school library where I was working.

I had been sitting in the
corner near the rows of dusty aging desktops, with my own laptop open. The first
page of my honors thesis stared back at me, failing to inspire me to action,
when movement near the double doors gave me an excuse to look up.

It was the Guy, the one from
the AN class, and he was being escorted by one of the paraprofessionals I didn’t
really know—Henry, I think. As they came in and made their way around and past
the scatter of tables and chairs that seemed arranged more to keep people out
of the library than invite them in to work, I realized he was coming over to
work on one of the desktops behind me.

With my eyes glued to my
screen, I pretended to not notice him, his dirty jeans, or the limp way his
black T-shirt hung off his body.

I wondered as they passed behind
me if he would recognize me from that day. The girl who had stood in the hall
and watched the whole episode play out.

But he didn’t say a word—not
that he would—and ended up settling at the computer in the farthest corner of
the very last row.

Okay, so great. Now I knew he
hadn’t gotten kicked out of school—not that it even mattered to me. Good for
him, though, I supposed.

I focused on the words that
filled half the document page in front of me. My senior honors thesis was
supposed to “encapsulate the skills and tools” I had acquired during my years
in high school while “focusing on a topic or research of personal interest.” In
the spring, those of us in the honors program were to submit our academic
papers and produce a public exposition that demonstrated our “superior
scholarship and capacity for field work.” The idea was that the honors program
evidenced to our prospective colleges our ability to demonstrate initiative,
discipline, creativity, and resourcefulness.

Essentially, it was to prove
that we were well prepared and groomed to leap through all the hoops that our
future universities would place on the field for us—because look, we’ve already
jumped through one that looks exactly the same.

I had been discouraged,
several times, by my academic advisor from looking at this project with that
particular, some might say negative, vantage point, but it’s not like it
mattered. Regardless of your preferred perspective—this was an academic tap
dance that prepared us to audition.

So to keep her from stressing
her point that “this is an opportunity to really grow as an individual,” I
picked a topic, mapped out the project, and decided to, for once in my life,
keep my mouth shut.

My academic advisor was
welcome to draw whatever conclusions she needed to about my personal growth
that allowed her sleep soundly every night.

Meanwhile, I would keep
jumping the hoops.

The topic I had chosen was
Karen—or “Caged Karen,” as the media had dubbed her. Her real name was not
Karen and had been kept confidential to protect her identity because ever since
Karen was born, she had been raised in solitary confinement.

When she was found at the age
of fourteen, she had lived almost her entire life in a single room. Deprived of
practically all human interaction except when she was severely abused for
making any sounds, Karen could not talk or understand language of any kind.
When they found her, she still wore diapers and had difficulty walking.
Researchers had estimated that, at the age of fourteen, Karen was functioning at
roughly the same place as a typical one-year-old baby.

The case of Caged Karen both
fascinated and horrified me. That her parents were monsters that beat her and
locked her away because she was cognitively disabled was tragic—but I had no
idea how I was going to turn her case into my honors thesis. Thus the mostly
blank page staring back at me.

After five more minutes of
staring and not writing a single word, I closed my laptop and packed up my
things to go to my next class, calculus.

The Guy was still in the last
row behind me, his computer screen completely hidden from view. I wondered what
he was working on.

Unlike the elective classes I
was forced to take with the Bellas and the Ashleys of the world, my calc class
actually did have other kids in it with two thoughts to rub together.

Consequently, when I entered,
everyone in this class already had work out, and they were busy glancing
between the whiteboard, their open calculus books, and their furiously moving
pencils.

It should be noted that no
one in this class had pink hair, bragged about their weekends, or threw
anything at other people.

Of course, the fact that
there were only five of us in the class and that each of us occupied an entire
sector of a room designed to hold forty kids might have had something to do
with the diligent silence of this class. But the reality was that really none
of us actually had any weekend adventures to speak of.

These people, while certainly
more my speed in terms of intellectual capacity, were also not my friends. We
were often thrown together in the name of a physics project, or gathered
together to participate in those ever-dreaded extracurricular activities that
everyone knew were important for college admission boards but no one really
wanted to attend—like chess club. We were probably best described as coworkers.

The region I had staked out
on the first day of class was the northeast section, front row, closest to the
windows that looked out over the school parking lot. Like my coworkers who had
arrived before me, I entered the class, sat down, opened my bag, took out my
notebook, calculus book, sharpened pencil, and began copying the equation from
the board.

The teacher wasn’t even in
the room yet—but we were all well-trained hoop jumpers.

I was in the middle of the
equation when I heard the door open. Since Mr. Thyen was the only person still
missing, I assumed it was him—until I looked up and into the eyes of the Guy.

Inexplicably, my heart
thundered in my chest and a rush of anxiety flooded through my body.

I looked down.

With my eyes staring at my
paper but my brain not comprehending a single thing written there, I tried to
look normal on the outside while inside my body a crazed circus erupted.

He was in the wrong
class—obviously. I waited for him to realize this and leave, but a second later
he was heading down the aisle behind me, and I heard the scrape of first one
chair across the floor and then a second as Henry, the paraprofessional with
him, took a seat as well.

Surely Henry realized they
were in the wrong class?

The feel of the room had
changed, like a “shift in the force,” as Eli would say. I didn’t dare turn
around to look but I did glance sideways and saw that Helen Nyugen, in the
northwest sector, had stopped working and was also looking at me with an
expression that asked, What the hell?

I shrugged slightly and
glanced back into the southwest section where Ryan Miller had also stopped
working but instead of having the good grace to at least pretend like nothing
was going on, had opted for the full body stare. Completely turned around in
his seat, he sat gaping at the Guy. He even looked like he was maybe about to
say something, but when Mr. Thyen finally walked in, he snapped his mouth shut.

Normally we all kept working
whenever Mr. T entered with his extra-large vanilla latte, but today all eyes
were on him—watching, waiting to see how he handled the interloper and his
special-education handler.

He took one, two steps, then
stopped. He looked around the room as if he were only now seeing us all for the
first time this year, then smiled.

“My, my, so much attention
for me today?” His hand moved to his collar and rubbed the fabric between his
thumb and index finger. “It’s my new shirt, yes?” He turned sideways so we
could see the back of his ultra-plain light blue oxford. “You like it? It was
on sale.”

When we didn’t laugh, he
smirked and proceeded to his desk. He lifted his bag and placed it and his
latte on the top of his desk and looked out at us. “Not the shirt? Well maybe
you’re all anxious to extend a warm Advanced Calc welcome to our newest
student.” Mr. T gestured with his hand to the section of the room behind me
where the Guy was sitting. This gesture gave us all the permission we
needed—well, except Ryan Miller, who clearly had no issue blatantly staring—to
turn and check the Guy out.

We both looked at Porter
Creed, sitting alone at a lunch table in the far corner of the cafeteria. He
had finished every last scrap of the mostly inedible food on his tray and was
now solving and unsolving a Rubik’s Cube over and over again—one-handed.
Occasionally he switched hands.

“I think he’s left-handed,”
Eli said.

“What?”

“He solves it faster, every
time, with his left hand.”

I stared at Eli with my
face-melting glare—he ignored it.

“Isn’t he in special
education?” he asked me.

“Affective needs,” I said,
releasing him from my laser eyes.

Eli shook his head, “Not all
of us have the school psychologist for a mother. What’s affective needs?”

I looked back at Porter.
“Emotional problems.”

Eli snorted and took a drink
from his Coke. “In that case, half the senior class should be affective needs.”

As if bored with it, Porter
put the cube down on table and slouched even farther down in his chair until
his head hung over the back. He let his arms hang at his side, giving the
impression that he had been shot and was now waiting for CSI to show up and
investigate a murder.

Henry, Porter’s adult
handler, was sitting at a table nearby with two other paras. He glanced over,
made sure Porter wasn’t about to freak out and kill someone, then returned to
his conversation that apparently only required him to nod and smile.

I got up from my seat.

Only halfway through his
lunch and not yet ready for our daily allotment of fresh air in the courtyard,
Eli craned his neck up at me, “Where are you going?”

Where was I going? “I’m going
to say hi to him.”

Eli made a face like I’d
farted. “Why?”

I looked back at Porter.
“Because when I don’t understand something, I investigate it . . . that’s why.”

Eli shook his head and took a
bite from his pie-shaped, pizza-flavored cardboard. “Well if he stabs you, it’s
your own fault. You’re not supposed to poke the bears through the cage, you
know.”

I ignored him.

As I approached, Porter
didn’t even stir, but I had the distinct impression that he absolutely knew I
was coming.

When I was only a few feet
from his table, he opened one eye and used it like a laser to scan and identify
me, before disinterestedly closing it again. “What do you want?” he barked.

I stopped and involuntarily
glanced at Henry, who was now watching us as he took bites from his sandwich. I
really did feel like a small child reaching into the bear’s cage.

I took a breath. “I wanted to
say hello—is that okay with you?”

At first, he didn’t say
anything. He continued to lie there, like a broken hostage. Then, completely
unexpectedly, a smirk played across his lips. He opened both eyes, and his foot
reached out and kicked one of the chairs out a few inches—apparently his
invitation for me to sit.

“It’s your life,” he said. He
sat up a little straighter, folded his hands across his stomach, and continued
to watch me, to wait for me to do or say something.

Seconds ticked. I sat down.

“Hello?” he finally said, as if he suddenly
realized he was speaking to an idiot.

“You’re in my Advanced Calc
class,” I blurted.

“Your ability to observe the
obvious is quite stunning.”

“Yes, much like your capacity
for being a dick, I see.” It popped out. Think it, say it. My insult hung in
the air between us and I wondered if I had gone from poking the bear to
punching it in the face.

Porter sat all the way up and
leaned forward across the table. “What did you call me?”

My eyes flicked to Henry, who
looked about ready to get up. I imagined my mother being called on her radio,
at any moment now, to come and rein Porter in again—but neither of them would
be able to get to me before Porter did.

This was a mistake.

“Nothing,” I said, dropping
my eyes to the table. “I’m sorry. I have a short temper.”

His laughter surprised me. “You
have a short temper?” When I looked up, Porter had leaned back in his chair and
was nodding his head. “Right.” He closed his eyes. “I’ll remember that.”

I watched him breathe in then
out—calming himself. Then he opened his eyes. “Don’t apologize, I am a total
dick. Ask anyone who knows me.”

He was trying to be cool, but
I could tell it was a show.

“So”—he forced his tone to
change—“what do you want? Help with calc?”

“Ha!” I blurted. “Not
likely.”

He raised his eyebrows in a
silent, Well, what then?

What did I want? I wanted to
know why: Why was Porter in my advanced calc class and in special education?
Why was he here, suddenly, at my school halfway through our senior year? And,
mostly, what had set him off last week? Why was he in such a rage that two
police officers had to restrain and cuff him, but today, he was sitting alone
in the cafeteria like nothing had ever happened, solving a Rubik’s Cube with
one hand?

Of course I had no idea how
to ask him any of this because, really, it was none of my business.

“You’re new here,” I said in
another one of my pathetically obvious observations. “I’m Ruth.”

Porter sighed and looked at
his wrist. He was wearing a watch. Who the hell wore a watch anymore? He stood
up, “Look,” he said as he glanced around the room. “It’s been real nice
chatting with you.” He looked over at Henry and gave him a huge fake smile,
then turned back to me with a straight face. “But I have to go.”

I stood up next to him. He
was tall, probably six feet at least, so I had to lean back a bit to look at
his face. It occurred to me that it was actually fairly amazing that my mom had
been able to keep Porter from bolting for as long as she did the other day.
Given that she was hardly any bigger than me, and I was only five foot five, he
could have totally tossed her out of his way at any time—the woman had some
serious skills of persuasion.

He stooped over and grabbed
his backpack from the floor and slung it over his shoulder. “See you around.”
He smirked, and his tone suggested he didn’t actually expect to see me at all.

“Oh, well . . .” I muttered.
His sudden departure rattled me. Like he was uninviting me from his space.

He walked away from me.

Shut down midsentence, I
stood gaping and speechless. My eyes shot over to Eli, who was staring at me
from under his questioning eyebrows. He waved his hand for me to come back.
Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing, so I ignored him.

If Porter was only heading
out into the yard for the rest of the lunch period, why did I have the feeling
his good-bye was more substantial? Like he was actually leaving school. He was
halfway to the doors when I did something I never, ever do.

I acted on an impulse.

“Porter!” I shouted, causing
several people at a nearby table, including Bella Blake, to turn and see what
all the commotion was about. Well, that’s great; what wonderfully ludicrous
gossip would this scene set in motion? Their sudden attention was almost enough
to make me follow Eli’s wishes and just go sit back down.

But when Porter stopped and
looked back at me, I ignored all of them and jogged to catch up with him
anyway. “Wait a second,” I said. “I’ll come with you.” As I got closer, Porter
narrowed his insanely blue eyes. His expression was not a happy one.

“What are you doing?” he
hissed, looking over my shoulder at all the eyes, including Henry’s, that kept
trying to pretend they weren’t staring.

Between his question and the
eyes, I felt like an idiot, exposed. “What?” I said, defensiveness coming to my
ego’s rescue. “Can’t a person be nice?” Which was a totally ridiculous thing
for me to say because, had he been so inclined to ask, not a single person in
this room would have ever used the word nice to describe me. Not even
Eli.

Porter looked at me like I
was insane, then shook his head. “Come on,” he said and started toward the door
again. “Now that the entire room is a witness . . .”

I wondered what he was talking
about as we pushed against the two double glass doors and exited into the yard.
“Witness to what?” I asked, and couldn’t help the six or seven really
horrendous thoughts that rolled through my brain with absolutely no effort at
all. Roosevelt High showed the same school violence prevention safety videos
every year: How to Identify a Predator followed by “Reporting” is not
“Telling.” Was Porter that dangerous? Was he a shooter? Or a nut-job
bomber? Was I, right now, walking into a situation with a psycho that would be
broadcast all over the nine-o’clock news?

And why? Because I had an
impulse to chase this obvious head case outside? Was I going to die because I
didn’t like a special education kid sitting behind me in advanced calculus?

Outside, Porter scanned the yard then cut a
sharp left down the side of the building. Did he have a bag of guns stashed
over here? I looked around for an adult but didn’t see one—of course. A panic
fluttered in my chest but I kept following him. What would my mother do?

“Look, Porter, I don’t know
what you’re doing, but can we talk about it for a minute?”

Now at the corner of the
building, Porter stopped and turned around. His entire expression was crinkled
annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

I swallowed. “I just . . . I
want to help.” I shrugged. “If I can, you know.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t know,
Ruth.” He turned away and kept walking.

Paralyzed, I watched as his
long legs easily climbed the low hill that led to the parking lot. I thought
about following him, but some invisible school boundary kept me rooted to the
outer edge of the yard. Would he stop at a car? Was someone meeting him here?
Should I go find my mother?

Porter didn’t stop anywhere,
and no one came to meet him. On the other side of the parking lot, on the
corner of Stanley and Elm, he looked both ways, waited for a mud-encrusted Jeep
to pass in front of him, then casually jogged across the road to the other side
before taking a right and heading up the street.

My heart hammered stupidly
against my chest. As I turned away from his escape, my cheeks burned red hot
from my own idiotic, impulsive imaginings. Porter wasn’t worried about people
witnessing his shooting—he didn’t want them to see him ditching!

I was about to have a heart
attack over ditching?

Call the police! Pull the
fire alarm!

Thank God I hadn’t said
anything more stupid than I did. Eli pushed through the doors, scanned the yard
then saw me.

“Ruth!” He nodded at me then
headed my way. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “What?”

“Don’t give me that,” he
shook his head, totally unwilling to accept my there’s nothing wrong with me
it’s you act. “I can tell by the look on your face something happened. Did
he hurt you?” he asked, looking around the yard, getting all defensive like his
beta self was going to transform into a butch beast and go kick Porter’s ass if
I happened to answer yes.

“No, and please. Like you
could hurt a flea.”

His eyes cut to me and he
pulled his head back like I’d insulted his male pride. “Oh, I can kick ass.”

Lunch was almost over. I
walked past him and headed for the doors, “Mm-hmm. Come on, killer, or we’ll be
late for class.”

He bounced up next to me,
dancing on his toes like a boxer and weaving his head back and forth. “You
don’t believe me. Well, maybe I’ll just have to kick your ass to show you.”

“HA! I’d love to see you try.
But you better not try here because it would be so embarrassing for you when I
make you cry in front of all these assholes.”

We pushed through the doors
and Eli stopped bouncing. “Speaking of that.”

I felt it before I saw it.
The eyes, furtive, questioning, dying to indulge in gossip. Then, like a wave
rolling through the room it happened, bodies leaned in, mouths whispered. I
heard the laughter. Laughter directed at me.

I ignored them—or tried to,
anyway. I kept walking with my eyes straight ahead and made a beeline for the
hallway, thanking God for every step Eli took beside me. Once we were out of
eyesight I turned to him.

“What the hell was that all
about?”

“Well, honestly, if you had
seen the way you chased after Porter Creed—a known sociopath, I might add—you’d
probably be pretty tempted to talk about it too.”

“I hardly chased him
down!” I turned on him.

Eli cocked his head and
raised his hands in defense. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying, there was more than
a hint of desperation on your face.” He made sappy doe-eyes at me.

“I swear to all that is holy,
I am going to punch you in your face if you don’t knock it off.”

Eli started backing up with
boxing moves and head weaving, “All right, now that’s what I was talking about!
We’re going to get this ass kicking on!” He smiled.

If I didn’t love him as much
as I did—I would seriously kill him. Instead, I sighed and rolled my eyes. I
detested gossip of any kind, even when it wasn’t about me.

“Oh come on,” he said giving
up the act. He put his arm around me and pulled me to his side. “Nothing will
come of it. Bella and Darren will get caught screwing in the girls’ locker room
again and everyone will forget that Ruth Robinson actually does have a beating
heart and that they could swear they saw it beat out loud for a mental
case.”

I shrugged him off me and
walked away, “Get to class, Eli,” I said, and headed for my fifth-hour English
Lit, more than a little mad at myself for stupid impulses and, even worse, for
indulging in them.

Who the hell
cared if Porter Creed was some kind of special education genius anyway?

____________________________________________________

Thank
you for reading chapter three of Affective Needs. A new chapter is posted
every Wednesday. If you don't feel like waiting for updates, here is the link to my book page and all the vendors that carry my books. Happy reading!